


hit me baby one more time

by Deisderium



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Assassins & Hitmen, Enemies to Married, M/M, death of a parent (offscreen), meet ugly, soft hours yet again, tumblr prompt that got wildly out of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium
Summary: The Soldier is the best of the best, the assassin his employers send when they don't want it to look like a murder—or when they want it to be an all-too-obvious murder, when they want a shot from a position that no one else could have made, a death so blatant that no one else could have pulled it off.Well, almost no one else.There's the Captain, of course, although the Soldier hates to admit it. But the Captain is his equal, and the two of them have spent years thwarting each other. Their employers are most often on opposite sides, and the Soldier has come up against the Captain so often that the familiarity he feels when he sees him is dangerously close to fondness.~o~In which two hitmen discover, against all rational thought, that they have feelings for each other.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 129
Kudos: 580
Collections: Sweet and Gentle Steve/Bucky





	hit me baby one more time

**Author's Note:**

> This was from a [tumblr prompt,](https://deisderium.tumblr.com/post/621170567007125504/hitmen-to-lovers-trope-be-like-we-have-been) but it spiraled so terribly out of control that i'm just making it a fic all on its own. If you've read the tumblr prompt before, and don't wish to revisit it, search for ~o~0~o~ and everything after that is new. <3

The Soldier is the best of the best, the assassin his employers send when they don't want it to look like a murder—or when they want it to be an all-too-obvious murder, when they want a shot from a position that no one else could have made, a death so blatant that no one else could have pulled it off.

Well, almost no one else.

There's the Captain, of course, although the Soldier hates to admit it. But the Captain is his equal, and the two of them have spent years thwarting each other. Their employers are most often on opposite sides, and the Soldier has come up against the Captain so often that the familiarity he feels when he sees him is dangerously close to fondness.

Not that anyone can know that. His employer, Hydra, sends him out on whatever mission they deem appropriate—it doesn't matter what he thinks or wants. He doesn't know if there's an ethical way to create a hitman, but it’s definitely not the Hydra way; they had recruited him to a prosthetics program after he lost his left arm in a car wreck, and then once he had the prosthetic arm, it had been the threat to his family that had kept him with them through the brutal training. He hasn’t seen his family in years; it’s better that way. Safer for them.

His mind tends to wander on a long stakeout like this, especially under the circumstances. He ate the last of his MREs two days ago, and hunger has left him weaker than is optimal. He hasn't slept in thirty-six hours, either, because his handler left and has yet to return. The handler has likely come to some harm, but the Soldier will still complete the mission. He has no other choice. He just hopes the target shows up soon.

The target is a turncoat twice over, or maybe three times depending on how you count it. He'd taken Hydra secrets to Shield, the rival organization for which the Captain works, then turned around and sold both their secrets to the United States government. If he hasn't flipped on the government, it's only because he hasn't had time yet. And now, he never will.

The target had a five day window to come to this position; the Soldier's handlers were unable to narrow the window down any farther. This is, by the Soldier's count, day four. He can hold out another day if he needs to. It won't be pleasant, but pleasant hasn't dictated anything about his life in years. He blames the gnawing in his belly and the fatigue pressing at the back of his skull that it takes him so long to hear the footsteps approaching.

But when the sound registers, it's only an instant before he flips around, away from his sniper rifle, handgun drawn and pointed at—

The Captain.

Interesting. Well, he knew that the Captain was likely assigned to this target as well.

Most people flinch when there’s a gun pointed at them, but not the Captain. He holds up both his hands in the international symbol for "I don't mean you any harm"—for most people, it's supposed to indicate that they're unarmed, but the Soldier doesn't think for a second that the Captain isn't just as loaded for bear as he is. Although—that's not all he's loaded for. When the Captain raised his hands in the air, he dropped the plastic takeout bag that he was holding. The scents emanating from it are savory, and the Soldier's stomach rumbles and then cramps, but he doesn't let his gun waver. He could shoot—but the Captain isn't the target of this mission.

A smaller voice inside his head says that Hydra would be thrilled if the Captain were collateral damage. It's he, himself, who doesn't want to kill the Captain, for reasons that are best left unexamined. Chalk it up to professional respect, if one must chalk it up to anything.

"I'm not here to hurt you," the Captain says. It's probably the first time the Soldier has heard him speak, outside of the short, harsh exclamations they exchange in a fight. His voice is deep, and sends a shiver down the Soldier's spine—not that he'd ever admit to that either.

"Then why are you here?" the Soldier says, not putting away his gun.

"My people intercepted your handler," the Captain says. 

The Soldier shrugs. A handler is a handler, and the Soldier has never been close with any of his. They interact with him like the weapon that he is, and he doesn't bother trying to change that. They're mostly interchangeable to him. 

"We've heard a little about how Hydra treats its people," the Captain continues. "I didn't think you'd have eaten, so I brought you some food." He takes a breath. "I'd have brought it sooner, but it took me a while to find you."

The Soldier frowns, despite the faint puff of professional pride. There's an ulterior motive somewhere, if only he can find it, but the food smells so good he doesn't really want to try that hard. "Why?" he says.

"Look," the Captain says, and grimaces. A line settles in above each of his eyebrows, where what look like habitual lines of thought and concern deepen in two actual furrows of worry. "I know we come up against each other more often than not, but you're good at what you do, and I respect your skill, even if I don't respect who you work for. We've got the same goal on this one, and I don't like to see you—hurt."

"A couple days without food isn't gonna kill me," the Soldier says, because it's not.

"Yeah, but you're not exactly going to be mission-ready either." The Captain shrugs, a strange smile on his face. The Soldier doesn't know what it means.

"You trying to get me to do all the work?" The soldier tries out a smile of his own. It feels weird on his face. "Maybe you're just trying to poison me."

The Captain laughs. Those little worried lines vanish from his forehead, show up again in the tiny wrinkles around his eyes. He's got a good laugh, open and carefree, even though the Soldier knows that logically, he surely has nearly as many cares as the Soldier does himself. "I promise you, if I was trying to kill you, I'd do it to your face."

For whatever reason, the Soldier believes him; and anyway, he thinks, what would it matter if he died? As far as his family is concerned, he vanished years ago, and to Hydra, he's just another tool; perhaps a finely honed one, but ultimately, replaceable.

"Okay," he says.

The Captain beams as though the Soldier has done him a particular favor. The soldier holsters his firearm, confident in the knowledge that, if it comes down to it, he's a very quick draw with his knife. The captain sits cross legged across from him, and dishes out food onto two paper plates. There are multiple dishes: chicken biryani, aloo palak, skewers of lamb and vegetables, dal, and naan, and the soldier can't help salivating. It smells much better than the kind of rations he usually eats on missions, and of course, hunger is the best seasoning. The Captain splits up everything equally, alternating spoonfuls onto both plates, making sure they each get a bit of everything in the containers, and he takes a bite of everything first, a clear assurance to the Soldier that he meant what he said about poison. He pours them both cold iced tea from a gallon jug, and offers the Soldier sweetener, which he declines.

They eat in silence, the Soldier largely concerned with not eating too fast and making himself sick. He makes himself take small bites at a measured pace, washing them down with tea. The Captain mirrors his motions, and if both of them watch each other warily, it's still more companionable than most of the Soldier's meals. His handlers know that he is Hydra's only under duress, and if there are others like him, serving only under compulsion, Hydra is careful not to let them form attachments with each other. As strange as it is considering the many times he and the Captain have tried to kill each other, this is the friendliest meal the Soldier has eaten in years.

They finish up, and exhaustion hits the Soldier like the undertow of a wave, threatening to pull him under.

"How long has it been since you slept?" the Captain asks.

The Soldier shakes his head. "Long enough."

"You can sleep if you want to," the Captain says. "I'll keep watch, and wake you if the target gets here."

The Soldier just stares at him for a moment, suspicious and uncertain.

"Why would I go to the trouble of feeding you up if I was going to kill you in your sleep?" the Captain asks.

"Maybe you've got weird hobbies," the Soldier replies.

The Captain snorts a laugh. "I think that's a given considering that I'm here with you." The Soldier considers it, and comes to the same conclusion he had drawn about the food: he doesn't actually think the Captain is going to kill him, but it's no great loss if he does. The only thing he can't understand is why the Captain's doing this at all; but if he thinks about it, maybe it's for that same reason that he himself didn't shoot when he had the chance. That thing that he is choosing to define as respect for a worthy opponent so that he doesn't have to think about what else it might be. Anything else is not for men like them. 

He leans back and lets his eyelids close, unsure if the Captain really expected him to take him up on the offer, unsure if he was really meant to. The thought that maybe the Captain drugged him after all drifts across his mind, but this doesn't feel like that—he's experienced sedation enough to recognize it. This feels like honest exhaustion, and he lets himself sink into it like a warm blanket.

He's a little surprised to wake up, in—he checks his internal sense of time—roughly five hours. He's shocked that he was able to sleep that long, but some part of him must have actually trusted the Captain to keep his word. And the funny thing is, the Captain did. He's sitting in exactly the same place he was five hours ago, watching the Soldier. The Soldier takes a swig of his now-lukewarm tea to wash the unfortunate sleep taste out of his mouth.

"Any sign of him?" he asks quietly.

The Captain shakes his head, eyes intent on the Soldier's face. "I'd have woken you."

The Soldier finds he believes this too. He eats some of the leftover food because he can, trying and failing to ignore the way the Captain's eyes go soft as he watches him. It's a weakness in the other man, and he doesn't understand it in the slightest. Some part of him likes it, though, and he tries to strangle whatever part that is.

He's still scooping up lentils with slightly stale naan when the Captain, watching through the scope, makes a muffled sound. The Soldier drops his food and nudges the Captain aside, hardly even thinking about the press of his arm against the Captain's.

He sets up the rifle without thinking, finger relaxed on the trigger as the target gets out of his car. "Hey," he murmurs, and the Captain looks at him. "You're not going to—I don't know. You're not going to fight me for this, are you?"

"No." The Captain looks startled. "No, the shot is yours. Both of our employers want the same thing. And mine are—" He bites off the rest of the sentence and looks at the Soldier apologetically.

"More forgiving," the Soldier finishes slowly. "All right."

He lines up the shot. It would be impossible for nearly anyone else, maybe even the man next to him. He waits, barely breathing, as the target straightens, surrounded by useless bodyguards. No one could stop what's coming.

He holds his breath, squeezes the trigger.

The target drops.

"What a shot," the Captain whispers next to him.

The Soldier is already breaking down his rifle. He makes himself focus on the movements of his hands, because otherwise he's afraid he might collapse. He can't stand the man next to him praising him like this. He's a killer, and there's no place for any bond between two people that means something. There's no room for anything but the work.

"I've got to go," the Soldier says abruptly. "I've got to meet my other handlers now that the mission is done."

"Sure," the Captain says. He hesitates, then offers, "My name is Steve."

_ Steve, _ the Soldier thinks. He had a name too. All he has to find is the strength to say it.

"Steve," he says out loud, and then drags up from somewhere in the back of his brain a nickname that won't give the Captain—Steve—any more information on the man the Soldier used to be if he goes digging, a name that's not on any official documentation anywhere, not even on the school records that Hydra scrubbed. "I'm Bucky."

"Bucky," Steve repeats. The Soldier likes the way that name sounds on his lips, probably too much. Steve reaches forward and wraps his fingers around the Soldier's gloved hand and presses. "I'll see you again," he says, and then slips away.

It doesn't feel like a threat. It feels like a promise.

~o~0~o~

Three months ago, Steve Rogers would've said that he was the apex of what an agent should be, even though he'd helped out his opposite number on a mission when he should have pressed for the advantage. He had arrogantly thought that not pressing the advantage might become an advantage of its own at some later point, but it's more or less a moot question now.

Not quite three months ago, Steve's mother died. And now, he's not sure what he would say about himself.

He'd never been able to tell his mother about the work he did; she had known that it was top-secret, and that her baby boy had done things he wasn't proud of—because he'd been able to tell her that much, even if he could never tell her what those things were. She'd had weak lungs her whole life, a trait that he had shared, until he'd undergone some experimental and borderline shady medical treatments when he joined Shield. But she'd never had the advantage of those medical treatments, and when she caught pneumonia, they had both tried to tell themselves that she'd pull through, but after a certain point, Steve had had to stop lying to himself, even if he kept up a brave face for her.

But there had been no deathbed confessions, no dramatic retelling of his many sins. It wasn't up to her to absolve him. He had seen no point in burdening her last days, although maybe that was selfish of him. He doesn't know at this point.

All he knows is that he's questioning things in a career where it's really best not to question things. One ought not spend too much time dwelling on what it means to do a government's dirty work when you are the person doing it. That's how you end up making mistakes, and mistakes in this line of work are deadly.

Steve knows he's not really in the right frame of mind for fieldwork, but when he gets cleared, he puts himself back on the roster.

It feels like the cruelest kind of fate, some sort of cosmic error, when the dossier that gets dropped on his desk is for the Winter Soldier.

"Is this a mistake?" Steve knows that he could go all the way to Fury if he needed to, but he doesn't. He goes to Natasha instead. Natasha's the closest thing he has to a mentor, the person who educated him in the more difficult aspects of their work.

"Why would it be a mistake?" She lifts one eyebrow, all cool control, and maybe he's wrong, but he assumes that she can tell just exactly how compromised he is when it comes to the Soldier. "You're one of the best we have, and he's definitely the best that they have, so…"

He lets his eyes drop back to the file. It's all hard copy, as most of the files that get dropped on his desk are. No digital trail to follow, just orders that are destroyed once he memorizes them. TERMINATION is spelled across the top in block letters. There's not much to identify the handwriting, so neat and impersonal are the letters, but Steve knows it's Fury's.

He thinks, for a moment, about refusing. What would happen if he didn't take this case?

Well, for starters, he'd probably get benched. An official reprimand, maybe, or a psych evaluation saying that he's not quite over his mother's death, after all. More importantly—someone else would take the file. Someone else would go after the Soldier. Someone else would take the contract on Bucky.

He takes a deep breath. When he thinks about it like that, his priorities become much clearer.

"All right," he says. "I'll do it."

Natasha gives him a shrewd, narrow-eyed look. "I thought you'd say that," she says, and tips the dossier into the shredder.

~o~

Steve knew that he was operating a little recklessly, but he didn't think that he'd gotten this bad. When he wakes after being gassed, hands and feet bound to the arms and legs of the chair, he's surprised to wake at all.

Or maybe he's not that surprised. Maybe Bucky is just as foolishly drawn to him as he is to Bucky.

Or to the Soldier, really, because it's very clearly the Soldier who’s sitting in a chair opposite him, frowning. Bucky's eyes rake Steve from head to toe and back again, taking in every detail, Steve has no doubt. It's what he would do, if their situations were reversed.

He doesn't expect their situations to be reversed. It would be absolutely stupid to think that just because he helped Bucky out that Bucky feels any obligation to help him out. It doesn't work like that, not in their profession. Advantages are to be taken, not squandered on what other people might perceive as a debt. It just doesn't work that way, not even among Steve's teammates, much less one of Hydra's assassins. And not just one of—the best.

Steve takes a breath, and opens his eyes, even though Bucky probably already knew that he was conscious.

"Steve," Bucky says, and Steve knows he shouldn't be feeling such deep satisfaction at the sound of his name on the other man's lips, but it's far too late for that.

"Buck," Steve says, not really meaning to shorten the other man's name, but not able to stop himself, either. 

"What are you doing?" Bucky says harshly.

Steve shakes his head. "Getting captured, apparently."

"It's not like you to be so careless." Bucky's eyes narrow, and he stares at Steve like he's trying to pull the truth out of his brain using sheer force of will alone.

Steve chokes out a harsh laugh, because of course it's not like him, but he's not like himself since his mother died. And, some more honest part of him admits, since he got put on a mission he vehemently disagrees with. 

"Maybe you're just that good," he says.

Bucky snorts. "Flattery will get you nowhere." The corner of his mouth ticks up, though, into what Steve can only describe as a smirk. "Are you here to fuck up my mission?"

Steve should lie, should tell him that yes, he's here to interfere with Bucky's mission. Or tell him that once again, they have the same goal. Anything but the truth. And yet, when Steve opens his mouth, what comes out is, "Not this time."

Bucky looks him up and down. Steve tests the ties at his wrists and ankles. Tight, of course. He would expect nothing less. He won't be getting out of these anytime soon.

"If you're not here about the diplomat, either to stop me or to help me, then why are you here? You can't expect me to believe this is a social call." Steve shakes his head slowly, not wanting to say it, and in fact knowing that he shouldn't say it, that Bucky's only sensible course of action if he tells him his assignment will be to kill him. But he doesn't have to say it; Bucky's eyes go startlingly wide and then he says, "Me. You're here for me."

Hearing him say it should have sent a bolt of adrenaline, the energy to escape flooding through him, but instead Steve somehow feels like a weight has come off his shoulders. "You're my mission," he admits. Bucky stares at him.

Bucky snorts a mirthless laugh. "I know you don't approach all your missions like this, or you'd be dead. You're usually methodical. Careful. Not reckless."

"Yeah, well." Steve shrugs as best as he's able in his bonds. "I'm usually not conflicted about the mission."

Bucky sucks in a breath. "Why are you conflicted this time?"

"I see a lot of things in you, Buck. But I don't see—and I never have seen—a willing agent of Hydra."

Bucky exhales, a sharp explosive sound. He doesn't confirm or deny Steve's speculation, but a muscle jumps in the corner of his mouth.

"Hydra's gotten careless," Steve says softly. "They've gone after too many of the wrong targets too openly. Shield's not the only agency after them, and it might not be immediate, but they're going down. I don't think you should go down with them."

"The things I've done…maybe there's no coming back from the things I've done." Bucky shakes his head.

"There's a big difference between things done willingly and things done under duress. You wouldn't be the first person who was forced to do things they found despicable. Shield's got more than one agent who started out on another side."

Bucky shakes his head again, and Steve sees his jaw firm up. Maybe he doesn't believe Steve, or maybe he thinks he's past all redemption. Or, as much as Steve doesn't like to think it, maybe he really has been a willing accomplice to all his crimes, and Steve just wants it to be different because he's projecting something that doesn't exist onto a pretty face and competent muscular body.

"I can't believe anyone let you out in the field like this," Bucky says, and Steve figures he can read a direct side step away from an uncomfortable conversation. That's all right; at least the idea’s there, now. "Couldn't anyone tell that you were too compromised to be in the field?"

"Compromised?" Steve says, raising an eyebrow.

"Clearly you're experiencing the lingering effects of grief," Bucky says almost angrily. "Why'd you let  _ yourself  _ back in the field?"

Steve's mouth has gone very dry, and he considers not answering. But, well, Bucky is not a stupid man. He'll figure it out. "If I didn't take you as a target, someone else would, and…" He swallows.

"And?" Bucky says quietly.

"And they wouldn't care, not the way I do." Bucky's eyes widen, and Steve hastens to add, "and nobody else is as good as I am, and I'd hate to waste other agents like that when you kill them."

Bucky laughs, a short surprised sound, and his eyes when he turns them on Steve are almost fond. Steve doesn't pretend that will make any difference to his eventual fate, but he likes the look of it. 

Bucky is quiet for a long, thoughtful moment. "Did you take any time off after your mother died?"

"I did, yeah," Steve says. "Some."

"Well, it clearly wasn't enough, because you're delusional coming after me like this." His eyes sweep over Steve again, and Steve feels oddly exposed. Well, maybe it's not actually that odd, considering that Bucky does have him tied up and at his mercy. The thought makes something uncurl deep inside Steve's gut. He frowns. He hasn't felt the slightest hint of desire and months. The interest just hasn't been there. But now, thinking about how he's tied up by a merciless and very competent assassin, now is the time his dick chooses to respond? He's not sure what that says about him, but it's probably not good. Even worse is the thought of what he might do with the tables turned--he has to clench his jaw on the thought of it, because if Bucky realizes what he’s thinking he’ll probably kill him. 

Bucky's still watching him, and Steve hopes to god that none of his thoughts show on his face.

"Don't come after me again unless you're in optimal condition," Bucky says abruptly. "You've lost, what, ten pounds?"

"Sometimes I forget to eat," Steve says. It's not something he's told anyone else. "I'm just not that hungry these days."

"Well, you're going to eat now," Bucky says he walks away from Steve, into another room. Steve takes a moment to wonder where they are. It's a very nondescript room, very minimally furnished. The walls are painted a pale gray, and the furniture is mostly modern, dark colors and sleek lines. If it's a safehouse, it's a very nice one; Steve's not sure what to think about the other possibility—that this is Bucky's home.

Bucky comes back from wherever he went, holding a plate of something. As he gets closer, Steve sees that it's chicken and rice, the chicken cut into small bites and the rice soaked in some kind of gravy. Bucky takes a bite of it as Steve watches, and Steve recognizes the gesture as the mirror of the one he made months ago—Bucky letting him know that the food is safe to eat.

Bucky scoops up a spoonful and offers it to Steve. Clearly, he's not going to untie him to let him eat. Steve is going to have to sit here and let himself be fed. The thought is somehow appealing, or maybe it's just that Steve has a thing for danger, and letting the big strong assassin hand feed him while he's tied up is just another reckless thing in a long line of them.

He opens his mouth.

The chicken is tart and buttery, rich and delicious. He tastes linen lemon and garlic and butter. He chews and swallows. "It's delicious."

"I don't know how to cook much," Bucky says gruffly, "but my mom used to make this all the time, and she taught me how."

"Thank you," Steve says.

Bucky's cheeks flush, and he doesn't say anything, just scoops up another bite to feed to Steve. Steve eats the entire bowl this way, bite by bite, from Bucky's hand, washed down every few bites with a sip of cold water from a pint glass. After the first bite, his stomach rumbles, and it's so strange to actually feel the hunger—like desire, it's another want that faded away since his mother died. But now he is hungry, and he finishes the bowl feeling grateful for it.

"What happens next?" Steve asks once the bowl is empty and he's satisfied. Bucky looks down and a little away, unsure or maybe just thinking.

"You go home," Bucky says, "and don't come after me again until you're feeling better. You’ll get yourself killed that way."

"You're going to just let me go?" Steve asks.

Bucky is quiet again, looking at Steve. Steve feels like he's being weighed. "You have your orders," Bucky finally says. "I don't have mine—not yet."

"What happens when you do?" Steve can't help but ask.

Bucky smiles, and if it looks a little melancholy, Steve certainly understands. "I guess we'll find out."

Bucky blindfolds Steve, then presses something into his hand. Steve is startled to feel what seems to be a small knife.

"Till next time," Bucky says, and Steve senses him stepping back. Everything is quiet, and Steve thinks Bucky must have already slipped away, but then he hears a quiet footstep and something soft presses against his forehead.

Steve would fall out of the chair, if he could; that was a kiss. Steve doesn't know what it means. But as he takes the small knife and awkwardly folds his hand to start hacking at the ropes around his wrists, he thinks that it's only going to make him be in deeper than he already is.

Bucky's right; he's compromised, but it's not about his mother's death. If Shield had sent him against any other agent, he wouldn't be having this problem.

He's compromised because it's Bucky.

~o~

The next month is a comedy of errors. If the stakes weren't so high, it would be fun. And honestly, Bucky thinks, it  _ is  _ fun. It's fun to try and set increasingly elaborate traps for Steve, knowing that he won't catch him, because Steve does seem to have listened to him, or to someone, anyway and is taking the threat of him more seriously.

Bucky booby-traps the route to Steve's favorite coffee place, then watches him through his scope from a block away, cackling as he disarms the obvious trap, only to have the glitter bomb Bucky set up next to it explode on his head. Steve looks around, his expression both sparkly and betrayed.

When Steve is working security at an event at the Prospect Park Zoo, protecting some notable person, Bucky sets a tiger on him. It's completely ridiculous and over the top, like the plot from a really bad movie, and honestly the tiger is nearly as confused as Steve and the other attendees. Bucky would have had to have planted a steak on Steve or something if he were really trying to get the tiger to commit, and even then, it probably wouldn't have. 

Bucky knows that Steve knows that it's him behind the world's most nonsensical and inept assassination, though; once the tiger is corralled back to its cage, Steve splits apart from the little group of Shield agents and sends an offended look off into the darkness. Not actually in Bucky's direction, but Bucky knows it's meant for him. He sneaks away, smirking.

And Steve retaliates in kind--the live butterflies released near Bucky’s sniper blind to draw attention to it so Bucky has to move, the seventeen anchovy and pineapple pizzas delivered to Bucky’s safehouse.

It's not all fun and games, though. Hydra can't fail to notice what he's doing, and needless to say, none of his handlers have a sense of humor.

"It's psychological warfare," Bucky says with no regard for things like truth. Well, what did they expect?

"It's fucking around is what it is," Rumlow replies with a grunt. "Alex doesn't like it. You need to stop screwing around and get serious.That arm doesn’t have to stay on your body, you know. Then you’d be useless to us. And little—Becca, was it? Will get a visit from me." Rumlow cracks his knuckles and wanders off, leaving Bucky's good mood deflated like a pricked balloon. Hydra's the fucking worst. There's a pit in Bucky's stomach as he considers not for the first time, what a terrible organization snapped him up.

Steve is a good man. Well, better than Bucky, anyway. Bucky knows that in the deep places of his heart where the blood flows, as well as intellectually, and with whatever shriveled remains of his conscience are still clinging on. Steve doesn't deserve to die.

But neither does Becca. Bucky hasn't seen his sister in years. Rumlow had called her little, but she's not, not anymore. Wherever she is, whatever she's doing, she's out there living a life, and it's wrong that Rumlow—and by extension, Alexander Pierce, who runs Hydra with an iron fist—have her life held in the palm of their uncaring hands.

It's wrong that they want him to kill Steve, too. Bucky had practically forgotten who he was, at the core of him, where it was important, before Steve came into his life. He'd let the horrors that he perpetrated at Hydra's behest numb him, because it was easier and better to be numb than think about what he had done and feel the true weight of the crimes he commited.

None of it is fair. It's not a new thought.

But for the first time, Bucky asks himself what he can do about it.

~o~

"You seem awfully pleased with yourself," Natasha says.

Steve hums a vague, perhaps slightly smug assent. It's been a fruitful month. Bucky has spent his time setting increasingly far-fetched traps for Steve, and Steve has responded in kind.

After the goddamn glitter bomb, Steve decided he needed to up his game. Bucky had seen the greased handholds and caltrops set across one of his rooftop perches, but in avoiding both he had been forced to walk through the paint trap, a mechanism usually used to trigger incapacitating gas of some kind but which Steve had filled with spray paint set at boot level, giving Bucky's tough guy boots stripes of fuchsia and limegreen. (It was kind of a shame, too, because Steve had unfortunately come to think of them as fuck-me boots. Not that he would be telling Bucky, or anyone else, that any time soon.)

He had completely sabotaged one of Bucky's assignments—not the assignment where he was meant to kill Steve, but another one, by releasing live butterflies where he was hidden to take the shot, forcing him to relocate when a horde of curious bystanders came to investigate.

"You know Fury wants you to kill him, not flirt with him," Natasha says, snapping Steve back to the present.

"I am trying to kill him," Steve says, not very convincingly. "If I were gonna flirt with him, I—" He lets his mouth shut on the rest of that sentence before he can finish it.

Natasha raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. "Whatever it is you're doing, you need to stop. We are meant to eliminate Hydra's agents, not—whatever this is."

"I just—" Steve says softly, not sure how he wants to finish that sentence.

"Not everyone's the kind you save," she says quietly. "Sometimes, they're just the ones you stop."

"I know," Steve says, because he does; but he doesn't think she's right. Not about Bucky.

~o~

And then, something terrible happens.

Bucky drops completely off the radar. Steve's pretty good at finding people who don't want to be found, and he has the full resources of Shield behind him with all the intelligence gatherers, clinical interpreters, trackers of online traces, and forensics accountants that anyone could desire.

And yet.

And yet, with all of Steve's resources, he can't find Bucky. It's like he's a ghost, and any hint of his presence has vanished.

A month goes on, and there's no sign of him. Steve is nervous. He's antsy. He annoys the shit out of Natasha, asking if she knows anything, if she herself has been sent to eliminate the Winter Soldier.

She can't find anything either. There are rumors coming up of something big, an operation that's epic in scope. It has to do with Hydra, but it doesn't seem to have to do with Bucky, at least not that any of Steve's contacts have heard or will tell him.

Finally, Steve goes to a debrief about a big Hydra sting, all hands on deck, every agent ready to go. It turns out all hands are needed, because Hydra has infiltrated not one, but several government agencies, and Shield has to move quickly and decisively to take them down. Some of the names are shocking—government officials, even the Secretary of State.

It's a bloody battle, but Shield have the element of surprise on their side, and manage to secure not only the corrupt officials, but a wealth of their files—enough evidence to put them all away.

Steve looks; of course he looks. His heart is in his throat during the entire operation, afraid that he will turn the corner, and a member of the next strike team will be Bucky.

But it doesn't happen. There's not a sign of him. It's like he really did vanish, and Steve has to admit that he was too late to save him.

The debrief seems to take forever, or maybe it's just the mood that Steve's in. He tries to hide it, but Natasha can tell that something's up. She doesn't make him talk about it, though, just brings him a coffee and a slim manila folder.

"Don't tell anyone I gave you this," she murmurs, and he slips it into his jacket.

If he had any self-control, he'd wait until he was home to look at it, but he doesn't. He calls a car to drive him home, and pores over the contents of the file.

James Buchanan Barnes, recruited to Hydra with the promise of a prosthetic arm, kept there with the threat of blackmail to his family. It makes Steve's heart ache, thinking about who he might have been without that threat hanging over his head.

The list of kills and missions with objectives met is impressive. Steve's gotten his own hands bloody more than once in his line of work, and he doesn't think any worse of Bucky for it, but it's like pressing the edges of the wound to think that when Steve had killed because a mission demanded it, Bucky had been extorted into doing it. And now, Bucky's gone. Steve wants to think that maybe he cut and ran, but he knows that it's much more likely that Hydra killed him. According to the file, his family is still alive, and Steve doesn't think that Hydra would have spared them if Bucky left, and nor does he think that after years of keeping them safe that Bucky would leave them to whatever fate Hydra had in mind for them.

The car drops him off in front of his apartment, and Steve makes his way inside, feeling much wearier than even post-mission exhaustion should account for. He taps his security code into the lock and waits for his fingerprint to scan. The lock clicks open and he goes inside. But he's not even in the short front hall of his apartment before the hairs on the back of his head snap up and he pulls his gun from the holster.

Someone's been in his apartment—or is  _ still  _ in his apartment. The fact that whoever it was didn't set the alarms off is deeply concerning, given the level of security his apartment has, both what he's put on it and what Natasha helped him with, above and beyond even the typical level of security one might expect from Shield. The only person who's ever gotten past it, in fact, is Natasha, and that had been a test from the person who'd set it up, at that.

He moves silently through the apartment, through the little kitchen and into the living area where—

Where a man is standing next to Steve's coffee table, a nondescript jacket pulled close around him, a ballcap doing nothing to disguise the blue of his eyes.

"Bucky," Steve breathes, aware that his voice has gone deep and hoarse. He doesn't even know what he's feeling at the moment, only that it's something big, taking over his whole chest, pressing against his rib cage with a tenderness that aches, as if it could be joy or pain, but hasn't quite made up its mind yet. "I thought you were dead."

"Even Hydra hasn't managed to kill me yet," Bucky says. "And I see they haven't managed to get you, either. Nice work today," he adds.

"I don't understand anything," Steve says. "What happened?"

"How about you put your gun down, and I'll tell you," Bucky says. Steve jumps, just a little bit; he'd forgotten he was still holding it. He holsters it immediately, not taking his eyes off BUcky. 

"Thanks," Bucky says softly. "The thing is, I realized that anything I might want to do with you was predicated on Hydra not having a hold on me anymore. So the only way I could think to take care of it was to gather everything I knew about Hydra and take it to Shield. Trade my intel for a chance to be free."

"And they let you?" Steve asks. "They didn't..." What he really wanted to know was if Bucky has traded one prison for another; if Shield is going to try and use him—if not exactly the way that Hydra had, then in their own way.

"No, Steve," Bucky says. His eyes flutter down, then up again. The movement of his lashes makes him look particularly vulnerable. "I brought the files on myself as well as my higher-ups, and they could see that I was coerced. I took the information on Hydra, and they made me a deal." 

"So…you're really free?" Steve knows he sounds disbelieving, but it's something that he hadn't let himself hope for. He's still not certain his guts are convinced that Bucky is alive, and safe.

"Yeah, I really am." Bucky smiles at him, and then Steve knows that what he's feeling is happiness. It's joy that's pressing against his ribs, leaving fingerprints on his heart.

"So what are you going to do now?" Steve says.

"Well, it looks like I'm going to go through training to join Shield, for one." Bucky smiles a little shyly. "We'll be coworkers."

"Really?" Steve breathes. He can't imagine how good it will be to see Bucky every day, to know that he's safe. To be the one protecting him when there's action.

"Guess they wanted me where they could keep an eye on me." If there's something a little bitter in Bucky's smile. It makes Steve's chest ache to see it, and he wants to reach out with a thumb to swipe across the soft stubble of Bucky's jaw. Steve makes his hand stay at his side

"And what about you? What do you want?" Steve asks. He doesn't know why the answer is so important to him, only that it is.

"Honestly, I want to be where I can keep an eye on you." His tone of voice is serious, but Bucky smiles as he says it.

Unexpectedly, Steve wants to laugh. His shoulders feel the lightest they have in months. If he'd thought about what he wanted, it wouldn't even have occurred to him that "the Winter Soldier and I on the same side" was something he could even ask for. And yet, here they were.

"You know what? I think I'd like that." Maybe it's too soon to pull the other man into a hug—they don't know each other that well, despite that phantom kiss to the forehead. Steve holds out his hand to shake instead. Bucky's fingers are strong and warm as he takes it, his grasp firm but not to the point where it seems like he's trying to prove anything.

"Someone's got to," Bucky says. "God knows you're reckless enough."

It's not the first time Steve heard that. "Here's to working together," he says. He tells himself to put the memory of that kiss to bed. They're coworkers now, and he hopes this is the beginning of a partnership.

"To working together," Bucky says and Steve tries not to mourn the warmth of his hand when he lets go.

~o~

Bucky never imagined—could not  _ possibly  _ have imagined—what it would be like to have Steve Rogers as his partner. He had known the Captain well when he was his adversary, and now that they're a team, he knows him even better.

When he was working for Hydra, he couldn't have known what it was like to have a partner who respected him. His handlers had seen him as an asset to be deployed, and had enforced their orders with fear, fear for his family, most of all, but fear that they might take his arm away, also.

Now, Shield technicians have worked to upgrade the prosthesis, and his thoughts and feelings about how he and Steve were to run missions were not only listened to but requested. They had discretion on how to run their missions, and if there was a mission he disagreed with or had a bad feeling about, he could raise his concerns to the team leaders, or not take the mission if he truly disagreed with it.

It’s strange. Good, but strange

And Steve…Steve is the best and strangest of all.

Since working with Steve, Bucky has gotten to know him much better. And everything that he had liked and respected about Steve before he knew him, he only likes and respects more now that they’re on the same team, he doesn’t fuck with him during missions. That seems counterproductive. But when they aren’t on a mission—that’s fair game.

There’s the ongoing mission to outdo each other in spicy food. There’s Bucky’s secret mission to replace all of Steve’s shirts with identical shirts in smaller sizes. Steve’s ongoing project of painting small pieces of Bucky’s gear in bright colors between missions.

Then there’s the way they spend their downtime. Not every team is as friendly off of work as they are; the widow and the archer seem to genuinely like each other, but most people at Shield don’t spend time together the way he and Steve do. 

There's always some restaurant that Steve thinks Bucky should try, some movie that Bucky thinks Steve might like to watch, always some excuse for them to spend more time together. And Bucky knows that's what it is, on his part at least—an excuse. He likes spending time with the other man. He can never forget that Steve helped him come back to himself, but it isn’t just that. He also just likes Steve, likes his dumb jokes, likes the smug smile he got when he pinned Bucky while they were sparring. He likes the way his hair slipped away from his face and the way his beard darkens his jaw when he grows it in. He likes pretty much everything about Steve, in fact.

He can’t forget the way it felt to press his lips to Steve's forehead. He wonders if Steve ever thinks about it.

On missions, the two of them are unstoppable. Their call signs are practically a compound word to everyone else, the-captain-and-the-soldier. It doesn’t take long for Bucky to see that Steve really is what he called him—a little reckless. Impulsive. He sees an opening, and he takes it. It isn’t a bad thing, but it's safer now that Steve has Bucky watching his six and making sure that his brave, impulsive decisions have someone with a more pragmatic approach to things backing him up.

The problem is that Bucky can't stop thinking about how well they fit together and how it would be even better to get closer together, but he can't tell if Steve's ever thought anything like that, and he doesn't want to jeopardize what they do have. It should be enough, right? They have a solid working partnership, and are friends to boot. Surely asking for anything more is reaching for the moon. If he thought it was reciprocated, maybe he'd try, but he just doesn't know, and for someone who's never afraid to throw his body at a problem, he's a lot more nervous about his heart.

When he thinks about the things he did under Hydra's control, he knows he's lucky enough to have Steve's friendship and that anything else can't be possible.

And then there's the mission that Steve goes on without him.

As much as Bucky likes to think of him and Steve as an unshakable team, the fact of the matter is that sometimes Shield shuffles partnerships around and assigns members of a usual team to other agents. Just because you work with someone most of the time doesn't mean you work with them all of the time.

They send Steve out with one of the other agents, Scott Lang. Bucky's never worked with him, so he doesn't know much about him, but he does know that the man has a crush on Steve visible from space. The hero worship rolling off of him in waves would be embarrassing or laughable if Bucky didn't feel faintly jealous. Not of Lang's crush, but of other people recognizing how great Steve is. He knows it's dumb and childish, but it's how he feels.

Obviously, he knows how great Steve is, and it's not that that isn't obvious to everyone that meets him, but Bucky feels protective of Steve and of their developing friendship. He wants to be the one watching Steve's six. He doesn't think anyone else could be as good at it as him. But Fury has him on desk duty that week, so Steve and Lang go on their mission, and Bucky stays behind.

Well, it turns out that Bucky was right—there really is no one else as good at watching Steve's six as he is, and apparently, the mission goes tits up.

Bucky just happens to be monitoring the comms—if by  _ happens to be _ , he means  _ obsessively listening to _ —so he hears the chatter as the bomb goes off. They're in a dangerous line of work, and he knows that intellectually, but he realizes that his gut never thought that Steve could seriously be hurt by the way it clenches up in horror when he hears the backup say, "Agents down.” 

A strike team mobilizes to extract Steve and Lang. Bucky's not there, and he knows he can't get there in any time to do any good, but it doesn't stop the adrenaline flooding his body, and it doesn't make him want to be there any less. He listens, abandoning even the faint pretense of doing any work, and when he hears that Steve's been transferred to medical, he takes the rest of the day off.

But when he gets to the hospital wing, he runs into a snag—they won't let him in.

"But I'm his partner," Bucky says.

"The nurse raises his eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that agent Rogers was married," he says.

No," Bucky says. "I'm his work partner."

"Well, I can see that you're concerned," the nurse says. Maybe he's a little sympathetic, but Bucky's too frustrated to care. "But no one's going to be able to see him until he gets transferred into another room or checked out.” Bucky can see that he's not getting anywhere, so he thanks the man shortly and leaves. But frustrated though he is, he's got a lot to think about.

~o~

Steve leaves the medical wing ten hours after he gets there. He  _ wants  _ to leave the medical wing nine hours earlier than that, but apparently he can't until he's been poked and prodded and had all of his blood measured or something.

He's banged up a little and slightly scorched around the edges, but he's all right. He's tired and he wants to go home. The trap that was set for them wasn't Scott's fault, but he can't help thinking that he wouldn't have been caught like this if he'd been with Bucky. Exhaustion catches up with him, and he sways on his feet as he unlocks the door.

This had steps up. He'd have to be a lot more exhausted and hurt then he is now not to notice that someone in his apartment.

He comes into the living room and it gives him a moment of déjà vu because, well, he can't help but think of the other time Bucky broke into his apartment. But this—this is different.

For one thing, there hadn't been all the…Steve can't think of what to call it besides atmosphere. There are candles on every surface, bathing the room in a soft, golden light. There are rose petals strewn all over the floor. The one thing that's the same is the man turning toward him.

But he hadn't known Bucky as well back then, and if Bucky had been nervous at all the first time, his face hadn't shown it. But now, now Steve can read him, and he's clearly nervous and just as clearly…hopeful? Steve thinks that's what's on his face.

A hope that Steve hadn't even really allowed himself to have springs to life in his own chest, speeding his heart beat until he feels like a kid again, the blood pumping fast in his veins, an almost electrical charge in the air.

"What is this?" Steve breathes.

"Are you okay?" Bucky takes a step closer. "They wouldn't let me come see you in medical."

"I'm fine." Bucky frowns, and his eyes trace the path of the burns along Steve's cheekbone, shiny with ointment. "A little dinged up," Steve amends. "Some superficial scrapes and burns, and some bruised ribs."

"They wouldn't let me in medical," Bucky repeats. "It got me thinking…we work really well together. I don't like it when other people are teamed up with you, because I don't trust anyone else to look out for you the way that I would." He takes a deep breath, and Steve can see that he's…blushing? The staccato beat of his heart pounds a little faster, a little harder. He really wants nothing more than to reach out and touch Bucky, maybe cup his hand around the other man's jaw. Maybe he'll get to, depending on what Bucky says next.

"I don't think there's anybody who knows you as well as I do," Bucky goes on, "and I know that there's no one who knows me like you do. The fact of the matter is there's not anyone I  _ want  _ to know as well as I know you." To Steve's surprise, Bucky drops to one knee. "I wouldn't have challenged Hydra for myself if you hadn't helped me remember that there was a self besides what they made me into. I know we don't know everything about each other yet, but I know a few important things about you. You're the kind of guy who'll take care of an enemy if he needs it, the kind of guy who does what he thinks is right regardless of whether it's what he's being told to do. You got a terrible sense of humor, almost as bad as mine—pink buckles on my combat boots, Steve? Really? I know I've got a lot to learn about you. And I want to spend the rest of my life learning it." He pulls a small box out of his pocket and opens it. There's a ring inside, black metal traced with gold.

"We’ve only known each other a few months, really," Steve breathes.

"Yeah, I know." Bucky shrugs, making even that look fluid and graceful. "We can have a long engagement, if you want. Get to know each other better. But there's not going to be anyone out there better for me than you, and I know you'd be getting the sorrier half of the deal, but…" 

He takes a deep breath and looks up again, meeting Steve's eye. "The fact of the matter is, you need me to look after you. The fact that you're reckless on missions probably means you’re reckless in your personal life, too, and I can take care of you as much as you take care of me. We spent so much time trying to kill each other, and now i just want to look out for you just as aggressively.”

It is, Steve knows, objectively crazy. Sure, he's been drawn to Bucky since before he even met him. Sure, Bucky is a handsome man that Steve can (and has) thought about climbing like a tree since the days when he was officially a bad guy. Sure, there's literally no one he trusts as much as Bucky, even though they've only been working together six months. None of that changes the fact that Steve barely knows the guy, and they've never even kissed, aside from that featherlight touch on Steve's forehead. What if they don't have chemistry? (Okay, that one seems pretty unlikely with the way the air is crackling around them right now.) What if adding sex to the mix ruins their partnership? And getting married is about a lot more than sex—it's about friendship and partnership and living together—all of which, Steve realizes, except for the last, they've got going for them.

He's been quiet too long. Bucky's chest is moving as he breathes, and the light has dwindled a little in his eyes. "I know I'm not a catch—I know I've got a lot to atone for—"

"Shut up," Steve says. "You are so a catch and I'll fight anyone who says you aren't, including you. So don't make me punch my fiancé."

And just like that, Bucky's face lights back up. "Is that a yes?"

Steve can feel the smile trying to break across his face, and he doesn't try to stop it. He doesn't want to, not when he feels happiness sparking through him, steadying the frantic beat of his heart. "Yes, Bucky Barnes, I'll marry you, even though it's a little bit crazy and we haven't known each other very long. Even though we haven't even kissed yet." He looks up at Bucky, takes in the smile wrinkling the corners of his eyelids, the sparkle in his eyes that had once been so flat and affectless. "That's a hint, by the way."

"Oh yeah?" Bucky murmurs, then wraps his metal fist in the collar of Steve's t-shirt and pulls him close.

Steve goes willingly, leaning up against Bucky chest to chest. He lets his arms snake around Bucky's waist and pull their bodies flush together. Bucky's right hand is gentle, careful over the curve of Steve's ribs, mindful of his injury, and it just makes Steve want to melt against him more. His eyes are so blue, and so close, and he looks at Steve like there's an answer to his every question in his face. Bucky's right—Steve does feel known and trusted with him; but more than that, he feels respected and challenged and cared for. And maybe he hadn't let himself say the word love yet, but what they have is certainly bigger and more all encompassing than any other relationship in his life.

Steve's not naïve enough to think that there won't be challenges. This is a big step to just jump in with both feet, but he's happy to do it. There will be things that they have to work out—not least among them figuring out if their personal relationship is going to change their professional relationship, and how sex and the intimacy of living together will make things different.

But he doesn't have to think about that right now, not with Bucky's lips closing on his own, not with Bucky's hand splayed flat against the small of his back. Steve's breathing faster with the anticipation of the touch, and he doesn't remember the last time kissing felt like this—like it was the most important thing in the world. Maybe it never has before; maybe it's just Bucky that makes him feel this way.

For a long moment, the kiss is gentle, friendly, almost—like the kiss against his forehead that Steve hasn't been able to stop thinking about since it happened. And he's happy with it like that, happy with the tenderness and gentleness that the feeling brings to him.

But then the kiss changes, and oh—this is what he was waiting for, without knowing it. Because it is still gentle, still tender, but also the press of Bucky's lips to his lights sparks up his spine, and Steve wants nothing more than to be set aflame. The nature of his job demands a lot of secrecy, and that's led to a lot of one night stands; and now, kissing Bucky, he thinks that maybe he's not a one night stand kind of guy after all, because the feeling of that tenderness and care being taken with him does something to him, for him. He wants Bucky, but he wants to take his time with him, take him apart, and having taken him apart, know what to do to make him surrender to pleasure in the future. He wants, he realizes, to know everything that Bucky likes and dislikes, to know what it is that brings him joy—and then Steve realizes that he doesn't just mean his body—although that thought is certainly pressing at the moment—but everything else about him.

And then Steve realizes—there's a lot of it he already knows, has already picked up without even trying.

Bucky pulls back just a little bit, runs his thumb over Steve's lips. "Did you know that you're smiling?" Bucky asks. He is, Steve notes, smiling himself.

"Just thinking," Steve says.

"Oh, yeah?" Bucky drops his hand away from Steve's mouth, strokes gently over the pulse in his throat. "What about?"

"About having a lifetime to get to know you," Steve says honestly.

There will be challenges, sure; there will be downs to go with the ups. But as they lean forward to kiss each other again, Steve knows with every particle of his being, that every bit of it will be worth it; will be rewarding. He lets himself tangle his fingers in Bucky's hair and thinks: how could it not?

~o~


End file.
